Cliff Notes
by MintExpresso
Summary: When the body of a journalist is discovered at the bottom of a cliff, it’s up to Brennan and Booth to catch the murderer who killed to protect a secret, and the prime suspect is an author working with Brennan's publisher. Complete!
1. Over the Edge

**Title**: Cliff Notes  
**Rating**: T for language and violence  
**Disclaimer**: The only Bones I lay claim to are the 206 I was born with. Great Falls National Park doesn't belong to me, either, it belongs to the government. Sounds like a cool place, though. Adventure Schools Rock Climbing exists in actuality as well. Cliff Notes, the book-summary and study-aid company (and friend to many a student), isn't mine either. I think I owe them my life a few times over, though.  
**Summary**: When a journalist is discovered at the bottom of a cliff, it's up to Brennan and Booth to catch the murderer and uncover the news that someone killed to protect.  
**Notes**: After a long slew of one-shots, I finally got around to something longer! Please let me know what you think!

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The sky was a thin, light, powdery blue, just beginning to streak with orange. Cicadas droned on incessantly. The air wasn't even humid- it was dry, bone dry, and hotter than anyone could remember.

The red pickup truck rattled and wheezed as it made its way over the rocky terrain. The car turned off with a shudder, and the driver stepped out and waited.

A thin man, with eyes that seemed too big to fit with the rest of his face, rose and strode over to the owner of the red truck, who was chewing disinterestedly on a toothpick. The man didn't remove it when he spoke.

"You called me here." There was a pause. The toothpick moved to the other side of the driver's mouth before he spoke again. "I want to know why."

The big eyes blinked twice. "You know why. And if you want to shut me up, you'll have to pay." The buzz in the air climaxed, filling the tense silence.

"You know, I'm not thinking that that will be necessary. In fact," the man removed the toothpick from his mouth and tossed it onto the ground, "I don't intend to cut any kind of deal with you. So if you're looking for money, you're going to go home disappointed."

The statement was met with a laugh. "I'll ruin you. You know it." He turned and took several steps away from the car and its driver, and looked down from where the ground abruptly plummeted to form a sheer cliff face. Trees and rock stretched as far as he could see. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he pivoted on the heel of his dusty boot to throw back one last sarcastic remark.

He was dead before it left his lips.

-----

Dr. Temperance Brennan stared at the computer screen in front of her. It was absolutely blank.

Like her mind.

Normally, she didn't work on her novels at the lab. Too many distractions, and besides, she liked to focus completely on her job while at work. She inwardly cursed her editor, who had been breathing down her neck to make more progress. The editor who had driven her to try to write during lunch.

She tentatively put her hands to the keyboard, paused, and then ferociously pounded out a paragraph. When she got to the end of it, her brain abruptly stopped. Apparently, getting a running start was not going to solve this problem for her. She held down the backspace key and watched the bungled paragraph get swallowed up into nothingness.

A voice pulled her out of her reverie.

"What's this? Acclaimed novelist Dr. Temperance Brennan deleting her own creative genius?" Agent Seeley Booth leaned against doorframe, smirking.

"It's more like, acclaimed novelist Dr. Temperance Brennan sending a load of crap back into the oblivion where it belongs." She sighed and leaned back in her chair, too frazzled to bother chiding Booth for walking in to her office without knocking.

"So what has the good author in her present condition of writer's block?"

She swiveled to face Booth. "Writer's block implies that I don't know what to write. I know exactly what I'm supposed to write, but I just can't write it. What do you need?"

He gave her a charming grin. "Crime scene. We need help recovering some remains. Decomposing flesh, and all that jazz you love so much."

She chose to ignore his second comment. "Where were they discovered?"

"Great Falls National Park. Apparently, the guy took a dive off a cliff. We're thinking he wasn't just trying to help the park live up to its name."

Brennan switched off the computer, not bothering to shut it down properly, and strode past Booth into the lab.

"Hodgins, Agent Booth has requested assistance at a crime scene. I'm going to need you to collect the samples you'll need." She paused, considered something, and then turned to face the youth cleaning instruments in the other corner of the room. "Zack, I'd like you to come as well."

Hodgins and Zack grinned at each other from across the room, clearly eager to be out of the lab. Truth be told, Brennan wouldn't mind getting out either. She couldn't feel guilty about not making progress on her book if she was at a crime scene.

-----

The cliff overlooked Great Falls National Park, with all of its trees and paths, and the students of Adventure Schools Rock Climbing swarming over different rock formations. Nice place for a picnic, Brennan decided. She was guessing the guy at her feet hadn't been there for that reason. The remains still had a fair bit of putrefying flesh holding them together, and various types of insects were enjoying their own lunch in the park.

"What do you know so far?" Booth's voice was tense. It was hard not to be, in this heat, though it was cooler than it had been for a few weeks.

Brennan looked up from the body, which Zack was helping her transfer to the body bag strapped onto the stretcher. She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. "Male, around five foot ten, cranio-facial features suggest Caucasian, cranial structure and the state of bone fusion suggest-" she paused, fingering the end of a rib- "mid thirties, maybe 36 or 37. But it's hard to tell until I've stripped the flesh. I'll be able to give you a more accurate estimate then."

Booth nodded. FBI workers whirled around them, taking pictures, looking for evidence, and blocking off areas with yellow tape. "What killed him?"

Brennan snorted, and pointed to a hole in the man's head. "Bullet to the brain looks like it could have done the trick."

"Especially since we found this near his feet." Booth held up a plastic evidence bag with a gun inside.

Zack stood up and stretched his legs, which were stiff from squatting next to the body for so long. "So it's a suicide? A man shoots himself at the edge of the cliff, figuring if one method fails, the other one will work?"

Hodgins was grinning. "Guess the guy figured if he messed one method up, he'd be out of his misery soon enough anyway."

"That's a definite possibility," Booth replied, looking at Hodgins, and only Hodgins.

But Brennan was shaking her head. "No, it's not." She rose and took the plastic bag with the gun, checked to make sure it wasn't cocked, and then pointed to a spot on her head with her free hand.

"That's where the entrance wound is." She moved her finger to another spot. "And this is where the exit wound is." She held the gun to her head where she had pointed the first time. Her arm was bent awkwardly. "It'd be a stretch for him to be able to pull the trigger. And even if he did, the bullet wouldn't have exited anywhere near where it did."

Booth snatched the gun from her hands. "How can you be sure that you don't have the entrance and exit wounds confused? A hole's a hole, in my book."

"Simple. The way the edges of the opening are beveled. If it bevels in, that's where the bullet entered. If it bevels out, that's where it left."

The FBI agent shifted his weight uncomfortably. "So you're saying…"

"This wasn't a suicide. This man was murdered."

-----

AN: Loved it? Hated it? Got something to say? Can't wait to read more, or not going to bother? Leave a review and let me know!


	2. A Name and a Face

**Disclaimer**: Because I'm not making any money off of this, I don't have enough cash to buy a TV show, and therefore, I don't own anything. That's the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose.  
**Notes**: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! And major props to my two lovely reviewers who pointed out that a former-army-sniper FBI agent would probably know the difference between exit and entrance wounds. You guys helped me avoid making the same mistake again in this chapter. The moral of the story? You should all press that little button that says 'go' at the bottom of the screen and let me know what you think!

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The Jeffersonian's one and only forensic anthropologist was taking notes on a clipboard while peering intently at the remains in front of her. That's all they were, she had always told herself. Remains. The only thing this guy had left behind and the only thing that could clue them in to who he had been.

"Lay it on me." Agent Booth grinned up at her. He was sitting on an office chair with his legs propped up on a storage box, hands behind his head and a complacent grin on his face. Brennan decided that he looked the way her cat did after finding a beam of sunlight to stretch out in.

Not so cute on a grown man, in her opinion. Her lip twitched in annoyance before she spoke.

"A variety of things can happen when someone takes a bullet to the head. The skull is so with the brain and its fluids that there really isn't much room for anything else." She took a step towards Booth before she continued. "Many times, the bullet goes in one side, out the other. Two wounds, one bullet."

"Yes, Brennan. I know. They teach you these kinds of things in the army," he quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

"Then you'll also know that sometimes the bullet fails to escape, causing the pressure inside the skull to shoot up dramatically. When that happens, the whole skull shatters, and pieces of bone and cranial matter are sprayed everywhere. It is not pretty."

"You know, Bones, you should bring this stuff up at parties sometime. Just hearing you talk like that makes my mouth water for some shrimp and beer. But, in any case," he jabbed a finger at the body on the table, with the skull still mostly intact, "that doesn't look like it happened to our guy."

Brennan shook her head and put a hand on her hip. "No, Booth. It's what happened to the guy whose head arrived here today as bloody fragments of skull mixed in with his brain and face, and which has yet to be unpacked from the box you are using as a footstool."

The polished shoes dropped to the floor immediately.

"Would you care to fill me in on that victim, over there, on the table? The one with the intact head?" Booth resisted the urge to scoot away from the box. It's not that he wasn't used to carnage wreaked by gunshot wounds, but the idea of someone's fragmented head, turned into soupy gunk and bones and sitting in a box… Well, it wasn't pleasant.

Brennan gleefully noted that he sounded annoyed, and, figuring that Booth wouldn't try to use anyone else's decomposing remains as ottomans, she complied. "5'10, male, Caucasian, 35-39. He's been dead for about five days- the heat caused things to decay at a faster rate, but Hodgins collected enough insects to be fairly certain of the time of death. I did find a healed fracture in his right wrist, consistent with a fall from a low height. He was probably between age 5 and 7 when that happened."

"Guy didn't have a good track record with heights," observed Booth. "But this guy is going to be tough to identify. Five days isn't that long. It's possible that he hasn't even been reported missing yet."

But Brennan just smiled. "Actually, Booth, I've managed to make your life a hell of a lot easier."

"Really, Bones? Trying out some new experiences, making some positive life changes, broadening your horizons?"

Her eyes rolled. "You wish. But I'm thinking the earring I found in his left ear will narrow down the search a bit?"

Booth broke out into a grin. "I think I'm in love, Bones."

-----

An hour later, Booth slid a file folder across Brennan's desk. "Patrick Debrue, age 37, journalist. Didn't show up for a date with his girlfriend on Tuesday. And apparently thought the stud looked artistic."

Angela flung the door open and walked in, not bothering to knock. "I've finished, but it looks like it won't be needed." The corner of her mouth twitched wryly. Her fingers were smudged with graphite, when she rubbed her nose, it left a streak. Brennan resisted the urge to laugh.

"Couldn't hurt to take a look." Brennan laid Angela's drawing and the photo from the file next to each other on her desk.

The same man stared up at them twice, his oddly large eyes and narrow face making it obvious that this was their man.

"Damn, I'm good." Angela wiggled her fingers at the two as she left the office.

Brennan leaned back in her chair and sighed, her eyes meeting Booth's. "Who would want to knock off a journalist?"

The agent snorted. "Who wouldn't? The press pisses off a lot of people. Hell, even you can hardly talk to the press to promote your own book."

He was rewarded with a sharp glare. Brennan definitely did not want to be reminded of her writing- that new chapter still wasn't done, and her publisher was going to be annoyed at the lack of progress. She decided she would finish later, and put it as far into the back of her mind as it would go. "I suppose you've spoken with his girlfriend."

"Actually, I was just on my way," he admitted, and then gave her his most charming, boyish grin. "Wanna come?"

"Why are you suddenly so eager to have me along?" she asked skeptically.

"What, I'm not allowed to simply enjoy your company?" His reply was met with silence and an intense stare until he finally relented. "Okay, fine. The lady knows her boyfriend's been killed. Found out this morning. I'm thinking you can pull out some of that 'I'm here for ya, girl' stuff, make things go more smoothly." He looked up at her pleadingly with his best puppy dog eyes.

Brennan snorted in disbelief. "You, the man who constantly insinuates that I have all the social charm of a fifteenth-century cannibal warrior, are asking me to comfort a woman and show solidarity simply because we are both the same gender?"

"Yeah, Bones. That's the idea."

A long pause followed. Pale eyes held chocolate ones in a battle of wills, until finally, Brennan gave in. She had planned to all along, really- he was bringing her along, she couldn't complain. She stood up and grabbed her bag. "Let's go."  
She was rewarded with a signature Seeley Booth cocky grin, and a mischievous glint flared up in the eyes she'd just been staring into. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You know, Bones, I always thought you were kind of charming."

"Shut up and get in the car."

The truth was, talking to those families and friends was tough. It was hard not to feel the anguish of a mother whose son has been murdered for heroin money. Hard to stay emotionally detached from the 23-year-old college student whose best friend has been caught in the crossfire of rival gangs. Or, in this case, the girlfriend of a 37-year-old journalist who'd been shot and dumped off a cliff.

These were the second-hand victims. The ones who had to go on living when someone they'd loved, and who had loved them, was suddenly gone. Not only gone, but had met a violent end.

It would be a little better today. They weren't delivering the news. Tara Edison, Debrue's girlfriend, had already been informed this morning. Now it was her turn to inform them. Still, Booth dreaded intruding on her grief… and for all Brennan's bluntness and social confusion, he knew she was good at reaching out to these victims. She'd been there.

In fact, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather have next to him at Tara Edison's door.

-----

AN: Reviews, comments, criticisms, flames, suggestions, reactions, notes threatening to kidnap my goldfish and hold him for ransom… look at all of the choices! Reviewers are loved!


	3. Questions and Answers

**Disclaimer**: In addition to all of the things that are normally not mine, Andale is also a real place. Seeing as I could barely afford to eat there, I don't own it, either.  
**Notes**: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! And, just so all of you who made threats to ransom my goldfish, I suppose I should have mentioned that he's in the same state as my social life. Died years ago. Ah well. Anyways, reviewers are loved!

-----

They would not make it to Tara Edison's house alive.

That is what Brennan told herself the third time Booth jammed down the brake to avoid being hit by some maniac tourist, or perhaps, as Hodgins would theorize, a drunken senator, as the black SUV snaked its way through the hell of DC traffic. The problem mostly arose from the fact that half of the people on the road had no clue where they were going, and the other half were usually running late.

After the two calmed their heart rates down, Booth continued to fill Brennan in on the details of what they were looking to find out from Edison.

"We need to find out if there's anyone who had a grudge against him, or any big news he discovered that someone would kill to cover up. We don't need to waste much time asking her the basics, she already went through basic questioning this morning."

Brennan turned the air conditioning down a few degrees. "But shouldn't we talk to the paper he worked for if we want to know what he was working on?"

Booth flicked the air back up a degree or two. Compromise. "He was a freelance journalist- all of his stories were pitched to the paper on an individual basis, or in groups of two or threes. Usually, the guy would have sold the piece to them before he wrote it, but if he found something big, he would have written it first to keep others from stealing his find."

"What if the reason he was killed didn't have anything to do with his profession, though?" Brennan argued.

"That, Bones, is what we are here to find out." Booth killed the ignition in the driveway of a small, one-story, white clapboard house. It seemed oddly out-of-place with the historic brick buildings around it.

The doorbell had barely finished ringing when the door opened. A woman in her early thirties, with thick and frizzy blonde hair, stood in front of them in jeans and a rumpled tee-shirt. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been crying- which she probably had, Brennan reminded herself.

"Hello, I'm Agent Seeley Booth, and this is my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan… are you Tara Edison?" Booth flashed his badge as he introduced them.

"Yes, come on in." Her voice was hoarse, as if the bitter truth she'd been forced to swallow had blistered her throat. She led them in to a small kitchen, with a depressing table and tired-looking chairs. "Would you like some coffee, or tea?" She looked as if she felt out of place in the kitchen, like her grief had somehow made the world foreign to her.

Brennan's heart went out to her. She couldn't help it. Quelling her emotions was one thing when she was looking at a body. Bodies were just shells. The people who had filled them were gone, but the ones who had loved them weren't. She swallowed, and let Booth answer for them.

"No thank you, Miss Edison. We'd just like to ask a few questions, and then we'll be on our way," Booth told her softly, and she sat down. "Is there anyone you can think of that held a grudge against Patrick?"

Tara swallowed, and considered the question for a minute. "He was a friendly man, no one that knew him could dislike him. But he's a…" she paused, and then continued, visibly flustered, "…was a journalist, and he could be pretty ruthless when he found dirt on someone. It was his job to be."

"Can you think of anyone that he may have upset in his work?" Booth encouraged.

"Lots of people, most likely, but usually that was just little things. The only person I can think of that he really… messed things up for was a man running for governor. Rien Diamond."

Brennan remembered that one. Two weeks before the elections, it had been discovered that Diamond was involved in a drug ring. He had pulled out, and Hodgins hadn't been able to shut up about it for a week. Patrick Debrue was the one who had brought that secret to light?

Apparently Booth thought this was a good lead to follow up on. "To your knowledge, did Mr. Diamond ever contact Patrick, or threaten him?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed. "Do you think it was him?" she asked nervously.

"We don't have any evidence to support that, we're just trying to figure out who might have had a motive," Brennan explained, in what she hoped was a soothing voice.

Booth nodded. "Do you know what Patrick was working on before he disappeared?"

"No, Patrick didn't talk about his stories until after they were published." She laughed ruefully. "I used to get mad at him, for not trusting me to keep his secret." Pause. "But… he did take me out to dinner last weekend, to a nice place, and said something about not worrying about the cost, that he was going to sell a good story soon. He seemed pretty happy about it."

"Do you know why he would have been at Great Falls National Park?"

"He loved rock climbing, and that was one of his favorite places. Usually he takes me along, though, and he didn't mention that he wanted to go. But he also went there a lot just to walk around, and to watch the sunset. It was one of his favorite places."

"Is there anything else you can think of that would be helpful to our investigation?"

She stood up and opened a drawer, then handed something to Booth. "This is the key to his apartment. I'm sure you can get in anyways, but it might make things easier."

"Thank you, Miss Edison. Please don't hesitate to call us if you think of anything else."

Tara nodded in response, lost in her own thoughts and private emotions. Her guests let themselves out.

-----

Ten minutes later, the two were back in the car and in the thick of rush-hour traffic. Booth had called the Bureau to request information on Rien Diamond.

"Do you think it was Diamond?" Brennan asked. She felt drained from the interview, and hoped talking would help clear her head- anything Booth had to say would be pure speculation, which usually irked her, along with a lot of other things that he did. She couldn't have cared less at that moment, though. Talking was better than just sitting there.

Booth thought for a moment. "I don't know. It's a bit of a stretch… the election was a while ago. But Debrue effectively ended Diamond's career, and pretty much massacred his reputation. Besides, anyone who imports illegal drugs while running for office has to be a little-" he clicked his tongue twice "-messed up."

"Are we going to go speak with him, then?" she asked.

He shot her a strange look. "No, Bones. We're going to ignore the crazy guy with a criminal record and a grudge against the victim," he replied sarcastically. "We're going over there first tomorrow morning, and then we'll check out Debrue's apartment. But right now, we're getting some dinner. It's pointless to try to get anywhere in this," he gestured vaguely at the traffic.

"That sounds good," she agreed. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. "How about Andale? It's close enough to walk to from here. It's a bit expensive, but we could split something."

Booth snorted as he looked for a good place to pull over. "I don't care how much it costs, as long as we can get out of this mess."

"Good, then you can pay." Brennan grinned as the car coasted over into an empty parking lot.

-----

AN: Hopefully you all enjoyed this chapter- let me know what you thought, please, whether you loved it, hated it, or anywhere in between! Suggestions, criticisms, comments, and all manner of reviews are loved.

Maybe I should give you all a little teaser about the NEXT chapter- which, aside from being longer, involves a spicy Mexican restaurant, the reason for Brennan's writer's block, and some extremely obvious flirting. Feeling teased?


	4. Some Like It Hot

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters, Fox does.  
**Notes**: Sorry that it's been so long! I actually wrote half of this, scrapped it, and then started over. Hopefully the extra time was worth it! Please let me know what you like, what you don't, what you'd like to see happen, what made you laugh, what should have but didn't… or anything else!

-----

Booth was dead.

He had died and gone to heaven. There was no other explanation for the divine taste of the meal he and Brennan were sharing. He was tearing into it like there was no tomorrow, lost in the bliss that only an authentic Mexican dish could provide.

Once the edge was taken off of Booth's hunger, he was able to take in the 'south of the border' atmosphere, with stucco walls, rustic candles, and a live band playing quietly at the other end of the restaurant. The traditional Mexican dancing song filled the place with a softly festive mood. No wonder Bones had picked the place, he thought. It was thoroughly fantastic.

Brennan was munching on a tortilla chip and looking at her partner bemusedly, with a smile that she couldn't quite help. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he was hungry.

"Bones," he said, finally stopping eating long enough to talk, "You were absolutely right. For once. This is great."

She rolled her eyes. "You forget that I'm usually right, Booth. It's in my nature." She grinned at him teasingly, then loaded a tortilla chip with salsa and ate it in two bites.

Booth snorted, and, not to be outdone, took a chip of his own, scooped up some salsa, and popped it into his mouth. He smirked as he chewed.

And then his mouth was on fire.

He sputtered and grabbed the nearest drink on the table (which happened to be Brennan's, she noted ruefully) and downed half of it at once. When he set it back down, his eyes were watering, and Brennan was laughing. Hard.

"How the hell did that not affect you? At all?" he demanded, wiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

She grinned. "I spent a while in Guatemala. And I've always loved spicy foods."

"That was more than just spicy. That was…" he searched for a word, "that was some kind of culinary torture device. It tastes good at first, and then you realize you've just swallowed fire."

Brennan rolled her eyes and pointed to the dish of offending salsa. "That is _salsa picante de chile chipolte y tomate_." She moved her finger to another dish. "This is _salsa fresca_, and this…" she pointed to the remaining container, "…is _salsa verde_. In descending order of heat. I would stick with the _salsa verde_ if I were you."

"Harsh, Bones. Harsh." He liked the way the Spanish rolled off of her tongue.

She ignored him and took a sip of her drink, which she'd snatched back from Booth. "Do you need me to do anything else with the case tonight? I have to meet with my publisher in a few hours." She didn't look enthused.

"No, we're done for tonight." He paused to take a bite of sweet potato. "What, still got writer's block?"

"I told you, Booth, it's not writer's block. I know what I have to write, I just-"

"-can't write it, yeah, you've said. What's got you so tied up?"

Her gaze shifted from his face to the salsa, which she swirled around absentmindedly with a chip. "My main character, Kathy, is supposed to be meeting up with her parents for the first time in a while. They're not supposed to get along." She looked up and met his eyes with hers again, an ironic little smile on her face.

"Oh." He paused a moment, unsure of what to say. She didn't know what it was like to have parents after childhood. Having to write about it must be a painful reminder of that for her, he thought. "And there's no getting around it?"

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. "I wish there was. I've started to write it too many times to count, but it never ends up right. It's not the right… interaction. Dialogue. Thoughts. Something always goes wrong. And it's important to the plot."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Anything I could do to help?" he offered.

Her brown hair caught the light as she shook her head. "No, not really." A moment of silence. "Thanks, though."

They were silent for another minute, and then talk turned to other things- easily, naturally. Parker. Her cat. A dog he'd once had. The people he worked with. The squints. What to get for dessert. Who would pay the bill. If she was going to be late.

The answer to that was yes, if they didn't leave soon.

-----

Brennan slid into her publisher's office only a few minutes late. She smelled like Mexican food- but she supposed that was better than other things she'd walked in smelling of.

"Tempe, please, have a seat." Tracy Cambrais was heavyset, with blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun and a 'my way or the highway' attitude about her. She was the kind of woman who got things done, even if no one could quite figure out how she'd managed it.

Brennan sat as told.

"We're going to have to finalize the release date for your book soon. That's what we need to talk about today. Is everything coming along according to plan?"  
The moment of truth. The guilty author squirmed uncomfortably. "I'm a bit… stuck. I've basically skipped a chapter, gone ahead, and written a few more, but I'm wary of continuing until I'm sure exactly how that scene is going to play out."

Cambrais shot her a look. "What's holding you up, hon?"

"I can't seem to get the… family dynamics right."

The publisher stood up. She was tall, in an imposing sort of way. "I'd like you to have that completed soon. I don't want to have to push the original date back any, or it won't be on the shelves in time for Christmas." She straightened her blouse. "Tell you what. Why don't I lend you a few books that have a lot of interaction in families with grown children? That way, you can get a feel for how others have written it."

Brennan nodded, relieved. "Yes, that'd be excellent. I wouldn't want to have to push the date back, either."

Cambrais was already gathering a stack of books from the enormous bookshelf behind her desk. "Good." She pointed to the book on top, a novel with a picture of a tall tree and 'From the Nest' printed across the cover. "That one was written by Jeff Harryl. He's out in the lobby, waiting for one of the publicity guys to get here. See if you can catch him." Harryl's books had done extremely well, and he was now one of the more prolific writers in the country. Brennan usually saw at least one of his books on display when she went to the bookstore, but she'd never read any.

Nodding her thanks, Tempe took the stack of books and backed out of the office. It could have been much worse, she told herself. But God forbid she didn't get that chapter written soon, she knew she would see a less benevolent side of Tracy Cambrais.

As she walked through the lobby, she heard a cheerful voice from her left. "Oi, that one's mine!"

She spun to see a polished-looking man, probably in his forties with too much gel in his hair, but a charming smile plastered across his face.

"You're Jeff Harryl, then?" she asked, trying to put her frustration to the side and be friendly. He hadn't done anything to deserve her annoyance, she rationalized.

"Yes, that's me!" he winked at her. "You're Tempe Brennan, correct? Haven't read your book yet, but I've heard it's great."

"Oh… thanks." She wasn't quite sure if that was a compliment or not.

"So, why is my book at the top of your reading list, miss?" He rose to speak with her.

She shifted the weight of the books to her hip. "I'm trying to refine the relationships between my character and her parents. Tracy told me yours would be helpful."

He let out a pleased hiss of air from between his teeth. "Well, if you ever want to chat about it, give me a call." He pulled a business card out of his pocket with a flourish and scrawled what she assumed was his cell phone number onto the back of it. "You're a pretty lady, I wouldn't mind sharing a coffee or two with you, miss." He flashed a charming grin again. It reminded her of the way Booth flipped his badge out. He took another step towards her, staring at her.

"I've got to be going, but I'll call you if I need anything." If she needed a creep breathing down her neck, maybe. She smiled briefly at him, and then strode out into the parking lot.

She had just put the books in her back seat when her phone chirped.

"Brennan," she answered automatically.

"Guess what, Bones?" Booth's voice replied. "The man we're looking for apparently liked to chew on toothpicks. Left one behind, even."

She laughed. "Who would be stupid enough to do that?" Her voice was incredulous.

"These people can think of lots to hide what they've done, but a lot of homicides aren't what you'd call well pre-meditated. It won't be the first or last time. Anyways, we've sent it for DNA testing. Hopefully we'll get something."

"Thanks for the update, then. See you tomorrow."

"Back atcha, Bones."

She couldn't explain even to herself why she smiled all the way home.

-----

**AN**: You know what would make ME smile? Lots of you letting me know what you think! I can't get any better without your feedback.

I guess I could give you guys another little teaser for next chapter, which will include some early-morning coffee, an interrogation, and a visit to the apartment of a dead man.


	5. A Crook and a Book

**Disclaimer**: You know, 'disclaimer' is a strange word. I guess it should technically mean 'one who disclaims'. So… I officially disclaim Bones!

**Notes**: I promised you all this would be here by Wednesday, and goshdarnit, it is! Of course, that's no thanks to the fact that I got bitten by the one-shot bug and wrote The Tempest before I started on this. Whoops… Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this, and that you will all note the deliberate reference to Tempe's drink of choice as a sign that I can, in fact, spell 'espresso' right.

-----

The sun was just beginning to stain the sky when Tempe walked in to the little corner café, the bell on the door jingling harshly as she pushed it open. She slung her bag over a chair and set a stack of books down on the little table, then stumbled over to the counter in a sleepy daze.

The problem didn't lie in the fact that she wasn't a morning person. Most of the time, when she woke up she was ready to go. She had just been too… stressed lately. Too stretched.

"One grande mint espresso, please," she asked the purple-haired youth behind the counter.

Moments later, caffeine in hand, she sat back down and picked up the book on the top of the stack. From the Nest, the cover proclaimed, by Jeff Harryl. She should have gotten it autographed, she thought wryly as she propped it open. He probably would have done it. Somehow, she couldn't imagine the pompous author she had met the night before writing a story on family and children returning home.

She sighed and took a sip of her drink, then started to read. It was better than she had expected, and it was helpful to see how Harryl expressed all of the interaction in words. She could read plainly all of the little things that she would have missed by simply observing a family.

Little things that she would always miss out on, and always be stuck observing.

She bit her tongue and pulled her attention back to the page, determined to get a good start before she had to meet Booth. This couldn't be put off any longer. Self-pity was not going to help her, and it never had. Taking a determined swig of her espresso, she refocused on the print in front of her.

-----

Two hours later, the sky was bright, the corner café was in full swing, and Booth and Brennan were whizzing down the highway together.

"How'd that meeting with your editor or whoever go last night?" Booth questioned, straightening his sunglasses with one hand as he drove.

Tempe shot him a look. "I've been assigned some reading, and I think I'm going to loose points or something if I turn this stuff in late. It's like high school all over again."

"Better keep your nose to the grindstone then, Bones, or you might loose your place as Science Club president," Booth teased.

She thwacked him with a her book in response, as he knew she would, and the rest of the ride passed in easy conversation until they pulled into the driveway of a worn-looking ranch house, with peeling sage-green paint on clapboard walls.

"This is it?" Brennan questioned as she stepped out.

"No, Bones, we're just stopping for coffee," he quipped.

Brennan rolled her eyes and the pair walked to the front and rang the doorbell.

It was answered by a man who looked like he might have been athletic once, but had gone slightly to seed over the years. His grey hair stood out at odd angles, and his jowls drooped depressingly. "Whaddaya want?" he asked them gruffly, the vestiges of a Chicago accent peppering his words.

"I'm Special Agent Booth, and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, who is working with me," Booth stated as he flashed his badge. "Could we please speak with Mr. Rien Diamond?"

"That's me." He eyed them suspiciously for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh and held the screen door open for them. "Come on in."

The house was worn looking, with furniture that looked as if it had been selected at random and become very tired from years of use. Diamond motioned to a sad little brown loveseat, which Brennan and Booth sat down on while their suspect plopped down in a fuzzy green armchair opposite them.

"Mr. Diamond, could you please tell us where you were last Wednesday, the nineteenth?" Booth questioned, deciding the name 'Patrick Debrue' could wait to be dropped until later.

"I was in Los Angles."

Brennan and Booth exchanged glances. It was possible, Booth decided, that he was bluffing it. It wouldn't be hard to find out.

"Why were you in Los Angeles?" the agent prompted.

"I was helping my mother with her will. You can call her lawyer and ask, and I signed about a hundred different papers while I was down there." The man twisted around and grabbed a pen, with the end chewed, and a napkin, then scrawled a number on it and handed it to Booth.

"We'll do that." Booth said shortly. "How long were you there?"

"Ten days from yesterday. I got back around ten last night."

At a look from Booth, Tempe sprung the question. "Mr. Diamond, do you know anything about a man named Patrick Debrue?"

Diamond snorted. "The bastard who ruined my career, you mean?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then," Booth shot. "You got a grudge against Mr. Debrue?"

"Part of the reason I'm sitting here, and not in some fancy office in Washington, is because of my own stupidity." He pointed the chewed end of the pen at Brennan. "The other part is because of Patrick Debrue. I never met the guy, but I'm not all that fond of him. I think that's understandable. What does this have to do with him? You think I threatened him or something? I'm not that dumb."

Booth stayed silent, and Brennan decided to go for the shock tactic. "Patrick Debrue was murdered last Wednesday."

Diamond tensed. "And you think I knocked him off."

"A cliff, actually. You have to admit, Mr. Diamond, that you look good for this. Bitter ex-candidate for governor, exposed by a journalist who later gets killed." Booth rose, and Brennan followed suit. "We'll be in touch."

Looking over her shoulder, Brennan shot Diamond a hard look as they left.

-----

Thirty minutes later, Brennan and Booth were in an elevator, on their way to the fifth floor of an apartment building with a slightly modern vibe. On the way, Booth had called the FBI in L.A. to confirm whether or not Diamond had been there. They were supposed to call back shortly.

"What kind of thing are we looking for here?" Brennan asked as the elevator reached their floor. They walked towards apartment 405B, clearly labeled in tacky gold letters that seemed out of place.

Booth pulled out the key Tara Edison had given them and fiddled with the lock. "Something that could tell us who would want to shoot him and dump him off a cliff, Bones. I'm not picky about what."

The door swung open, and the two made their way inside.

Just then, Booth's phone chirped, and he answered it while Brennan drifted towards a bookshelf.

A moment later, he snapped it shut and turned to Brennan, looking frazzled. "He was there."

She didn't look like she was listening. Instead, she was staring intently at a paperback novel in her hands. "Booth. Come look at this."

-----

AN: Let me know what you thought of this chapter, please! I love reviewers!

The next chapter should be up by Sunday. Look for an interview between two dead people, a new suspect, and plans for a date.


	6. Author's Intent

**Disclaimer**: As Zack Addy pointed out last episode, there are 206 bones in the human body. Those are the only kind of Bones I own.  
**Notes**: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far! This is one of those 'the-plot-thickens' chapters, and it took me longer to write than most, even though it's a tad shorter. I hope you all enjoy it!

-----

Booth closed the distance between himself and Brennan in two long strides. "What's that?"

She turned to face him. "Remember that required reading I was telling you about, from my publisher? This is one of the books I've started." She held it up for him to see.

"From the Nest by Jeff Harryl. Cute. What does this have to do with anything?"

She flipped it open and moved to his side to show him better. "Look at these."

He did as he was told. There were papers stuffed inside the book, and a newspaper clipping. He quickly read the scrawled notes on a sheet of paper- 'Similar story published, large portions the same, check newspaper archives'. Underneath was a list of numbers in a different color ink.

"Page numbers?" he theorized, cocking an eyebrow.

"It would make sense," Brennan agreed, smiling. "But look at this."

It was a newspaper clipping, with a grainy photo of an older woman, and titled "Lydia Harryl."

Brennan's finger trailed to the top of the clipping and tapped twice at the page header. "Obituaries," she exhaled.

Booth scanned the column quickly. Something caught his eye. "Listen to this, Bones. 'Mrs. Harryl was also a skilled and sensitive writer, who had some of her short stories published in this paper twenty years ago.' And then… 'Lydia is survived by her three children, Roger, Emily, and Jeff, and preceded by her husband, Richard. Roger and Emily wish to make it known that there will be a memorial service held on Tuesday.' Sounds like Jeff wasn't involved, doesn't it?" He ran his tongue over his teeth and flipped to the next sheet of paper.

"Do you think that Debrue, or whoever wrote this, thought that Harryl plagiarized parts of his work from his mother? And that they might have been estranged?"

Booth let out a low whistle. "Bones, I think we just got lucky." He held up the page he'd been staring at, and Brennan leaned in for a better look. Her eyes widened.

"It's an article," she said, that infectious little I-can't-help-but-smile tugging at her lips. She reached out and took it from Booth. "It's not finished, but this is definitely a draft for a news piece." She started reading it out loud.

-----

James Frey's A Million Little Pieces managed to captivate the public and cause a good deal of controversy when it was revealed to be not entirely biographical. Many accused the author of dishonesty and hoodwinking the public. How much worse is it, then, when a book has entire sections lifted directly from another person's work, without credit or acknowledgement?

From the Nest, by Jeff Harryl, was well-received by critics as a warm, sensitive, and sentimental book centering on the relationship of a woman with her children after they'd flown the figurative nest. It was at the top of the New York Times Best Seller List for a goodly chunk of time, and has been a commercial success. However, entire chapters of the book were not written by Harryl. So who were they written by? The answer might surprise you.

His mother.

Lydia Harryl was born and died in a small town in West Virginia. She married Richard Harryl and the couple had three children before Roger passed away of lung cancer eight years after their marriage. Several of her short stories were published over 25 years ago in the town's local paper- stories that would later make up much of her son's book.

Jeff Harryl was estranged from his family after he graduated from college, and did not keep in contact with his mother, brother, or sister after that point. His mother died in 2001, and Harryl did not attend her memorial service or funeral.

I spoke with the older Harryl brother, Roger, who told me that neither he nor his sister had read their brother's work, or spoken to him since the death of their mother. He was surprised, and angered, to learn of the plagiarism, stating that his mother would have never consented to the copying of her work.

-----

The boxy writing ended abruptly, as if Debrue had been called away by a ringing phone or beeping microwave, meaning to finish later, but never had. Booth whipped out his cell and dialed quickly. "Yes, I'd like information on someone named Roger Harryl, please." Silence. "You're positive?" Another pause. "Thanks."

Booth snapped his cell shut and turned to Brennan, who seemed to be in a world of her own as she stared at the cover of the book in front of her. "Roger Harryl died four months ago. It was ruled a suicide."

That definitely grabbed Tempe's attention. "That would explain why this story wasn't ever brought to light. The only two people who found out died. But Debrue died several months after Roger."

Booth considered this a moment. "Maybe Debrue found out about the suicide, and wasn't buying it? Wanted to go for the larger expose, so he put off publishing the article on the plagiarism? Or maybe the suicide is real, and he wanted to strike some kind of deal with Harryl?"  
"Maybe. But Booth-" Tempe fingers were thrumming nervously across the book's cover. "I met Jeff Harryl. Yesterday night."

It was Booth's turn to be startled into full attention. "What?"

"We have the same publisher. He was there, in the waiting room, and saw his book at the top of my stack," she said, furrowing her brow. "And then…" a light went on in her eyes, and she blinked at the book cover before turning to Booth with a grin on her face. "He gave me his number, and said to call him if I ever wanted to go out."

That was definitely a strange coincidence, the FBI agent decided. And another thing- why did his partner always get hit on by creeps? Agitated, he started to reply, but was cut off by the sound of Brennan's voice.

"Hello, Jeff, this is Temperance… yes, I'm good, and you? Great. Listen, I wanted to take you up on that dinner offer, if it's still good."

Booth stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was she thinking?

"Seven tonight? At Aria Trattoria? No, I'll meet you there. See you then." She shut her phone with a snap.

-----

**AN**: Thanks for reading this… you can increase my gratitude tenfold by reviewing it, as well! All comments, criticisms, suggestions, things you'd like to see happen, and other types of reviews are adored. Also, the pace will be picking up as far as updates on this story go, because I've got a new project in mind that I'm rather excited about. So we'll say you'll have the next chapter on Tuesday.

I suppose I should close with another of those true (but extremely misleading) teasers I've been tossing your way. So- next chapter, look for an argument, an Italian place, and a kiss.


	7. Dinner and Deception

**Disclaimer**: Bones isn't mine, and Aria Trattoria is real (ergo: not mine).

**Notes**: This chapter was a ton of fun to write, and I think it shows! Thanks to all of you who took the time to review, you're all lovely! This chapter is a tad longer, and it's up a day early. (Hint: I _may_ be bribing you to review.)

-----

"Bones, what the hell possessed you to do that?" Booth snapped, glaring at her. It was, of course, a stroke of pure genius on her part, and he knew it.

Brennan rolled her eyes. "You know perfectly well that it's an excellent idea, so cut the act so we can work out the details. I'm meeting Harryl there at seven. You should get to the restaurant a few minutes earlier than that, and I'll make sure we're seated where you have a plain view and can hear us. Bring your laptop," she suggested, "it will make your presence seem more logical to Harryl. You'll be just another workaholic businessman."

He stared at her for a minute. "Fine, Bones, but if he starts getting suspicious I want you out of there, and we can do things by the book." His voice had that warning, no-nonsense edge.

Their eyes met and they held each other's gaze for a moment before Brennan nodded. "Fine." She knew better than to argue with him on this point, and she knew she owed him her trust.

Her trust, and so much more, when it came down to it, she thought. Her life, even. Several times over.

Tempe inhaled sharply and turned to survey the apartment. A glass of water rested on an end table. A book lay open on the couch, complete with a gum-wrapper bookmark. 'Call Tara' was scrawled on a red Post-It note stuck onto the TV remote. Little remnants of someone's life, little testaments to the man who had once lived and walked and talked and loved, little reminders that he would never again have a cool drink or find out what happened at the end of the book or call his girlfriend.

Booth's hands twitched. These kinds of scenes were one of the many downsides to working homicide. He glanced at Brennan, who had a vaguely analytical expression on her face, as if she was trying to figure out what kind of person created these empty rooms.

He wondered what she would think if she knew how many of them he'd created. The fact that he'd done it to protect his country, to save his own life, other lives, didn't bring him much comfort when he thought of grieving widows and fatherless children, or despondent lovers and despairing mothers.

Booth caught Brennan's eye again, and nodded. They didn't need anything else here. He dropped her off at her apartment and promised to be at the restaurant when she arrived, and talked to her about how they were going to make this whole restaurant charade work. Brennan paid careful attention for once; Booth was the expert where these kinds of things were concerned. She'd be a fool not to do it the way he wanted. After he dropped Brennan off, Booth drove back to his office to start some paperwork.

-----

The simple truth was that being around Brennan was torture for Booth sometimes. The way she didn't know so much about her own generation, because who can have friends when they get shuffled from foster home to foster home for their last two and a half years of high school? The way she was so confused about how to reach out to people after years of shutting everyone out. The way she couldn't write that damn chapter in her book.

She thought she could handle hearing what he'd done all those years ago, but the fact was, he'd created too many Temperance Brennans.

Booth sighed as he pulled into the parking lot of Aria Trattoria and killed the engine.

-----

Brennan was glad to see Booth already seated when she arrived. His laptop was out, the shiny screen provided him with some ability to see behind him, she guessed, while still being close enough to hear. She was glad at least one of them knew what to do.

Harryl was waiting for her when she arrived. He was wearing khaki pants and a green dress shirt, and his hair looked as if it was wet from all of the gel, but his face lit up when he saw her.

"Temperance. You look lovely tonight."

Booth had to agree. She was wearing a low-cut sleeveless black dress, with some sort of silver and turquoise confection hanging elegantly from her neck and silver bangles on one wrist.

"Thank-you, Jeff." She smiled and turned to the waiter seating them. "Could we please sit at that table, please? I'd like to be able to see outside." She motioned to the large glass window across from the table for two, and the waiter nodded, sat them, and handed them their menus.

"So, Temperance, has my book been helping you with your writing?" Harryl questioned, cocking an eyebrow. Booth was glad he could only see the back of Harryl's head on the screen. He'd bet good money the sleaze was drooling.

Tempe grinned at him flirtatiously. "Of course it has, don't be silly. It's very insightful, and brilliantly written. But please, call me Tempe."

Booth bit into his bruschetta with a vengeance.

" Tempe it is, then. Waiter, two glasses of red wine." Brennan noted with a tinge of annoyance that he'd ordered her drink for her. Even Booth wouldn't presume to do that.

"You're taller than I remembered, Jeff," she said, playing with a bangle and crossing her legs.

"Six two," he confessed, grinning.

"Six foot two, eyes of blue," Tempe replied in a sing-song voice that grated on Booth's nerves. And how did she know that saying, anyways?

Jeff laughed as the waiter arrived with their wine and asked their order. "The roasted mushroom cannelloni, please," he requested.

"I'll have the rockfish salmoriglio." Booth noted with glee that Brennan had chosen the most expensive item on the menu.

-----

An hour later, Tempe felt like her head was about to burst from the headache she'd been developing. Harryl had talked through most of the meal, mostly about himself, but he'd said nothing incriminating. Tempe had tried to encourage things out of him, but she couldn't do much without seeming too obvious. There had been a dark flicker in his eyes when she'd mentioned her problems with the press, though, she was almost certain.

Booth was very, very tempted to order a second glass of wine. He'd been listening to Harryl's egotistical ranting for the past hour, and was glad he didn't have to appear interested, unlike Brennan.

The waiter cleared Brennan and Harryl's plates, and the two declined dessert.

"Can I offer you a ride home?" Harryl asked, taking Tempe's hand in his over the table and leaning in. Booth gritted his teeth together.

"No, I'm sorry; I have to stop in at work before I go home. But I had a lovely evening." He was looking for action, she noted with scorn. Her mind flashed to the toothpick that Booth mentioned had been found at the crime scene. Well, if Harryl wanted action…

Brennan leaned in closer, till her face was next to Harryl's. "A very lovely evening," she murmured.

Booth almost choked on his biscotti in surprise. Brennan and Harryl were kissing, and he was pretty sure it'd been Brennan's idea. He loudly clacked a few lines into the nonsensical spreadsheet he'd been "working" on the whole night long, as if to remind her that he was sitting right there.

Brennan pulled back and laughed. "You have something in your teeth, Jeff."

Harryl just grinned and pulled something out of his pocket- a toothpick, Brennan noted with ecstasy. "Want to get that for me, sweetheart?" he asked, handing it to her.  
She took the toothpick from him and proceeded to pick the nonexistent food from his teeth, managing to lightly scrape his cheek as well without being blatant, then stood up, toothpick in hand, and grabbed her purse. "I'm going to go to the restroom and then head out," she said, and Harryl stood as well.

"I guess I'll see ya later, eh, sweetheart?" he asked, obviously feeling suave and smooth.

"Of course you will," she assured him, giving him a teasing peck on the cheek and then slipping off to the restroom.

Booth let out a sigh as she disappeared. Finally, it was over. Harryl was paying the check and leaving. He was gone. A moment later, Brennan was sliding into the chair opposite Booth.

She held up a plastic evidence bag with a toothpick inside. "How's that for your evidence?"

"Great, Bones." Booth's mouth twitched in annoyance, and he paused a moment. "Did you really have to drool all over him, though?" he shot, unable to hold himself back.

Tempe shot him a look. "You think I enjoyed spending the night flirting with a murder suspect?" she asked, annoyed, but then sat back. A smile started to creep across her face. "You're jealous, Booth. Face it."

Booth snorted. "Of what, the fact that he's going to be facing the death sentence if this DNA matches?" he retorted, then slammed his laptop shut and left a twenty on the table.

She ignored his statement and stood. "We shouldn't talk here, just in case. I'll meet you at the lab."

-----

An hour later, Brennan and Booth had sent the toothpick for DNA testing, and were filling out the necessary paperwork for the comparison.

"Did you hear him say anything useful, Bones?" Booth asked as he checked off a box on the form in front of him.

"You heard him say everything I did, Booth," she replied, shivering slightly in the cool air conditioning of the lab. "None of which was incriminating."

"Unless he plans to go on trial for what, three counts of reckless self-promotion and a count of hair gel abuse?" Booth quipped in reply as he swirled his signature onto the last form.

Brennan looked at him hard for a moment. "You should go home and get some sleep, Booth. The brain's efficiency and ability to reason is decreased by-"

"-you know, Bones, that's a good idea," he replied, standing up and cutting the lecture short. "Make sure you're alert for anything suspicious. It didn't seem as if he'd caught on, and he's certainly not the brightest bulb in the box, but you never know." He held her gaze for a second, just to make his point clear.  
She nodded in response. "What time will the DNA test results be in?" she asked, gathering her things.

" Six o'clock tomorrow morning," he replied.

"See you then, Booth. Good night."

"Good night," her partner echoed as she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the parking lot.

-----

The streets of DC were quiet and relatively empty as Brennan drove home, exhausted and ready to climb into bed and sleep for hours and hours. She glanced at the clock. She'd probably get around five hours.

After parking, she climbed out of the car and stared at it for a moment. Her words to Hodgins came echoing back- _now I feel like I have to earn it_. Maybe she'd write just a little before bed.

Yawning, she entered the building and ascended the stairs to her apartment. The key slid into the lock, turned. Brennan pushed the door open, took a step inside, locked the door behind her, and flipped on the lights.

The room was trashed.

-----

AN: Only two more chapters left to go, plus the epilogue! A perfect time to drop me a line and let me know what you think, isn't it? If you can't think of anything to say, pick your favorite line or something, just keep in touch!

As far as next chapter goes, there's an angry cat, a broken picture frame, and a lot of other stuff that you're going to have to wait for or else I'll give too much away.


	8. Breaking Point

**Disclaimer**: In addition to all of the usual things that aren't mine, Birdie is taken from Kathy Reich's novels. I'll try to return her safe and sound.  
**AN: **I think this is the longest chapter in the whole story, if I'm not mistaken, so I hope you all enjoy it!

-----

Brennan's apartment looked as if some sort of wild animal had torn through it. Papers lay scattered on the floor, chairs were upturned, and her couch was lying on its side. She instinctively stepped back, one hand reaching for the door handle and the other for her cell phone. When she turned her head to look behind her, she saw him.

Rough hands were grabbing her before she had a chance to react, covering her mouth and trapping her. A low, angry voice hissed into her ear.

"You bitch, you're going to get it now. You tricked me once, but you'll never trick anyone again." She could barely hear him over the pounding in her ears and the voice inside of her, screaming- _fight! Run! Go!_

Her defense training took over, and with a few well-placed jabs and twists, Brennan had managed to wrest herself from Harryl's grasp, but only got a few steps away before he had both her wrists. They were both struggling, Harryl to keep her down, Brennan to get away. She was sure he was covered in bruises, but he was tenacious, and stronger than she would have thought.

Pain seared through her arm; he was bending it backwards and preventing her from moving. Then, she was flying backwards into her bookshelf, which wobbled but did not fall, though several shelves broke as she whammed into them. Novels, textbooks, encyclopedias and magazines rained down, and she heard glass shatter as the one picture frame she'd added to the shelves broke beneath her arm.

The glass had to be a thousand degrees, the way it burned her forearm and sent heat searing through her. She tried to move, but her body wouldn't listen. Through her shocked haze, Tempe saw him looming above her, something glinting in his hand.

Then, there was a terrific yowl, and the ball of grey fluff and claws Tempe referred to as her cat flew from where it had been sleeping atop the bookshelf and was attempting to attach itself in a permanent way to Harryl's face.

He swaggered back a moment, and Tempe knew that it was now or never. She sprang to her feet, biting back the bile rising in her throat, and grabbed the ornamental vase she'd gotten in Kenya. His back was to her, and she couldn't see her cat anymore as he turned. Before he had a chance to respond, she smashed the large piece of pottery over his head, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Panting, Tempe leaned against the wall, staring at Harryl's unmoving form. She could see his back rising and falling ever-so-slightly, but the man was definitely out for a while. Her trembling fingers reached for her cell phone.

Who to call, 911 or Booth? The question was too much for her stunned and tired mind. Booth would let her know what to do. She held down the key on her phone that she had programmed to speed dial him and hoped he wasn't asleep yet.

-----

Booth was on his way home when his phone chirped in his pocket. He glanced at the caller before flipping it open- Bones, the readout told him. Why would she be calling?

"What's up, Bones?" he asked, holding the cell to his ear.

"Booth." Her voice sounded unsure, heavy.

"Bones? What's wrong?" He changed lanes; if it turned out she didn't need him, he could always turn back around.

The line was silent for a moment, scaring him. "Harryl was at my apartment when I got home. He attacked me." She sounded bewildered, as if she didn't believe it herself.

Booth nearly ran into the car ahead of him as he accelerated the car. "What? Bones, are you okay? What happened? Where's Harryl?" He didn't mean to throw so many questions out, she already sounded confused, but he couldn't help himself.

"Harryl's bleeding all over my carpet. I knocked him out with a vase I got from Kenya. Booth, I haven't called the police yet, should I do that and then you can get over here and arrest this guy? Or maybe he needs an ambulance…" her voice trailed off.

"I'll call, you keep an eye on him and arm yourself," Booth instructed. "I'm on my way right now, I'll be there in five minutes," especially at the rate he was speeding, he thought, "but are you okay?" She seemed to be evading the question, he noted with concern.

"Yes, I'm fine, I have a few bruises and my arm has some glass in it and I think I might have a concussion or something because my head hurts and I'm a little dizzy-"

She was obviously not fine, but he was relatively relieved. It could have been worse. He didn't want to think about how much so.

"-but the bleeding is not profuse and I don't believe that I've sustained any fractures, breaks, or life-threatening injuries," she finished, swallowing. It was obvious that she was feeling more than a little dazed.

"I'll be there in a few minutes, Bones; you just hang on and make sure Harryl doesn't pull anything. I've got to call the ambulance now," he said softly.

"Alright. I don't think Harryl's going anywhere." Booth marveled at how she could keep her dry humor, not to mention her head, about her. He heard the line click, and he was glad she had hung up first, not him, because he didn't know if he would have been able to. He pushed a button on his cell and called in an ambulance and some backup.

-----

Temperance's world kept spinning around her, and it wouldn't listen to her when she screamed at it to stop inside of her head. She sucked in air and leaned against the wall. After a moment, the vertigo receded and she opened her eyes.

Tentatively, she held out her arm and gently removed the few shards of glass embedded with a hiss of pain. They hadn't gone deep, luckily. Her gaze involuntarily turned to the broken frame on the floor and she took a step towards it.

Her parents' faces gazed up at her. The picture was the one memento she kept in plain sight of them. It was her way of proving to herself that she had gotten to the point where the reminder of them was no longer painful. The problem lay in the fact that she felt coldness seep through her stomach whenever she glanced at it.

The picture was ruined now, she saw. It was punctured in several places, and blood had pooled onto her mother's face. Tempe shuddered and looked away. Sirens sounded in the distance, came closer and closer.

The door flew open, and Booth filled the doorframe, panting heavily. She was very glad to see him; she figured it was one step closer to being able to lie down and sleep for a very, very long time, though she suspected he would be doing paperwork into the morning. Besides, she always felt safer when he was there. He protected her in more ways than one.

His eyes did a one-over of the apartment, with its trashed drawers, tipped furniture, destroyed bookshelf, cracked glass, and unconscious Harryl, before coming to rest on Brennan.

"Bones." His voice caught in his throat as he strode over to her. She was bleeding from her arm, but not severely, she had a large lump on her forehead, and a few other bruises and scrapes. "Are you okay?" It seemed like a stupid question immediately. She rewarded him with a dazed stare, and he noticed that her eyes seemed to be two different sizes. A concussion, he concluded.

"I think you had better arrest him, Booth," Tempe said, struggling to focus, "He's been moving around a little." At that moment, Harryl let out a small groan, as if to reiterate Tempe's point.

Booth was more than happy to comply. He cuffed Harryl's hands together and took a good look at the back of his head, where a nasty bump was forming and some blood was running from, but it didn't look life-threatening. Booth decided he would definitely not want to be on the receiving end of one of Brennan's African vases.

Snatching a towel from the pile of laundry that had tumbled from the couch, Booth closed the distance between himself and Brennan. "Hold out your arm," he instructed, and she did as told. He folded the towel and pressed it to her arm to stop the bleeding. Tempe inhaled sharply, and then relaxed.

Her eyes met his. "Thank you," he heard her breathe.

The sound of heavy shoes thudding through the hall announced the arrival of the paramedics, with the other agents Booth had called in on their heels. Booth turned Brennan in the direction of the former and steered her towards them, keeping a grip on her arm until handing her off to an EMT.

-----

Ten minutes later, Booth was done making arrangements for the night. He would have a busy day tomorrow, for sure, but that could, and would, wait.

The EMT was looking into Brennan's eyes while the bruised anthropologist held ice to her head. Her scrapes were clean and bandaged, and while she knew she'd be sore the next day, she also realized it could have been much, much worse.

"Does she need to go to the hospital?" Booth's voice startled her, and she didn't know why.

"No, she has a mild concussion, but she'll be fine as long as she keeps icing her head. She should also stay up for at least another hour or so," the EMT responded, speaking to the both of them.

The agent nodded and gently tugged on her elbow. "Bones, I need to know everything that happened since you left the lab," he said in a soft voice, leading her over to her kitchen, which had been, for the most part, undisturbed. He did note a few scorch marks on the cabinet doors opposite the fridge, though; it seemed so long ago that he had been the banged and bruised one.

Brennan sat down across the table from Booth, fighting to keep herself awake, though she wasn't feeling quite as dazed as she had at first. Since when did she let Booth lead her around by her arm like that? She shook herself, which hurt, and then started relating the events to her partner.

"I drove home, went up the stairs, and opened the door, as usual. When I turned on the light, I saw that everything was trashed, and then Harryl grabbed me and said that… that even though I fooled him once, I wouldn't do it ever again." She closed her eyes for a moment and shuddered involuntarily.

Booth wished this conversation could have waited until morning, but he knew it would do more harm than good. Besides, the agents in the living room would need this information to hold Harryl until they could get concrete evidence on the murder.

Her voice cut through his thoughts. "We struggled, and he pushed me into the bookshelf, which broke, and I hit the back of my head on it. I also got hit by one of the books on the top shelf," she noted, pressing the ice pack firmly onto her scalp at the thought of it, "and it was probably the unabridged dictionary, judging from the way my head feels," she noted, grinning. The smile slid from her face as she continued. "Then, he was standing over me with a knife, but my cat-" she stopped a moment. "My cat attacked him. And I hit him over the head with a vase. But what happened to Birdie?" She stood, sliding the chair back and looking around agitatedly. "Birdie!" she called, as she strode into the living room with Booth following behind.

He saw it first; the pathetic grey and red ball of fur lying near the foot of the wall. She looked where his eyes were trained, and her hand flew up to her mouth as she took an involuntary step forwards and brought her hand down to her cat, her Birdie who made the nights not quite as lonely, who greeted her in the morning with a rough kiss and a yowling for milk, who napped all day long, and most of the night.

Her Birdie, who had saved Tempe's life and then left it for good.

She stood, shakily, and turned to face her partner. He was looking at her strangely, as if he didn't know what to do, or how she would respond. Her eyes filled with tears, and, as if that were some sort of permission for him, he pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest.

She was too shell-shocked already to be able to do much more than bury her face into Booth and try not to completely loose it. Just a cat, she told herself, but that didn't change the fact that someone else she'd come to count on was gone. She tried to breathe in deeply, but ended up just hiccupping into the clean white shirt her partner wore. A sob escaped her lips.

After a moment, she broke apart from his embrace and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just that…" she drew in a shaky breath and tried to give Booth some sort of smile, "…I've had that cat a long time. I'll be okay."

He was glad she hadn't objected to him comforting her. It had felt good to be able to do something to help her, to soothe her. The fact that she normally wouldn't have made it seem even more important.

Tempe breathed in shakily and surveyed the crew still picking at the wreck of her living room. Booth seemed to read her mind.

"They'll be here until late; they need to gather evidence to use against Harryl in court. You can come home with me and sleep on the couch, if you'd like."

She nodded wearily. "Yes, that would be nice, Booth. Let me get my things together." Stepping into her bedroom, she glanced around cautiously at first to make sure nothing had been disturbed. She would have to talk to Booth about how Harryl had broken in, she thought. This was the second time her personal space had been violated, and she resented it. It had taken her a long time to make home a place she wanted to be, somewhere she wanted to return to after work, and she wouldn't let jerks like this take it from her, she decided.

Booth was ready and waiting when she got back into the kitchen. He held the door for her as they left, and she could feel his eyes on her as they walked down the stairs and out the front doors of the building. On the way to Booth's they listened to music and talked about meaningless things, just to keep her awake until she reached the couch.

Finally, she was lying down, head on her own pillow, but lying on her partner's sofa.

"Good night, Bones," he told her after she thanked him for the tenth time for his hospitality, "I'm glad you're okay."

The lights went off with a soft click, and Tempe drifted to sleep.

-----

**Very Long Closing AN**: So much for returning the cat safe and sound.

I hate to break it to you guys, but I veered off the straight and narrow path of the All Powerful Story Outline, and as a result, the next chapter is the last, as in, the epilogue. I know, I know, I should be drawn and quartered, but really, it's better this way. The old plan called for two extremely boring chapters and THEN an epilogue, without any violence, falling books, or interesting interaction between Booth and Brennan. Sorry!

And what should you look for in this last chapter? Closure, of course! Brennan's cat, Booth's case, Brennan's publisher's ability to make money off of selling Harryl's books… all good things come to an end!

So… did you love it? Hate it? Got a favorite line? Think I should be nicer to cats? Let me know! Drop me a line, keep in touch, let me know what you think!


	9. A Gift and a Giver

**Disclaimer**: I lay no claim to anything. No need to send Booth to my house to pull out some painful Army Ranger moves on me. Though if you'd like to send Booth to my house...  
**Notes**: Last chapter. I hope you enjoy it! One very clever reviewer made a dead-on prediction. Good job, Ataralasse!

-----

Temperance was confused when she opened her eyes. For one, she was lying on Booth's couch, and it took her a second to remember why. It was also broad daylight, and the anthropologist couldn't remember the last time she'd risen after the sun.

She sighed and pressed her face to the pillow. Her head throbbed faintly and her whole body was sore, but she was well-rested. The whole fiasco would have been easily forgettable, she reflected, if it hadn't been for the bastard killing her cat.

It wasn't that Tempe was an animal fanatic. She just liked having another living being in the house, for company. Birdie had been picked up at an animal shelter two years ago; a gift from Angela, in fact. She would go back to the same shelter to get a new kitten, she decided. Getting a new pet so quickly would seem disrespectful to some people, of course, but Tempe would feel strange being alone after having that comforting presence for so long. She knew that getting a new cat didn't mean that she had finished grieving for the old one.

Sighing, she kicked her legs over the edge of the couch and sat up. Her things were on the end table to her left, and there was a piece of paper taped to her cell phone. Ignoring the way her head rang when she stood, she rose and reached for the note.

_Bones,_

_I called Goodman and told him you weren't going to be in this morning. Help yourself to whatever in the kitchen. Call me when you get up._

_-Booth_

She sat cross-legged back down on the couch and dialed. Booth picked up immediately.

"Finally up, Bones?"

"You should have woken me before you left." A quick glance at the clock told her it was nearly 11. "But thanks for letting me sleep."

"People who beat up murderers, get shoved into bookcases, and nearly avoid getting stabbed are entitled to miss a morning of work. Do you want me to come get you? We could grab some lunch."

"Yes, that'd be excellent, Booth, but I'm tired of eating out. Why don't I throw something together, and then when you get here we can eat and then leave?" She began pulling the things she'd packed out of her bag as she spoke.

"Sure, Bones. I'll be there in an hour. Just don't burn anything down."

"Very amusing. See you soon, Booth."

"Hope so, Bones."

-----

Booth sat back and sighed after taking the last bite of the meal Brennan had whipped up. Some sort of stir-fry, from what he could gather, and delicious.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Brennan said wryly, watching him grin complacently.

"Go right ahead." The agent stood and started helping his partner clear the dishes.

"What's the news on the case?" Tempe asked, rinsing off a pan.

"It's a lot of what we already had guessed. Harryl stole the stories from his mother, and no one was the wiser until Debrue spotted one of the originals while digging through some old archives. It turns out the suicide was genuine; the brother died five minutes after talking with Debrue, and the coroner's report supports suicide." Booth glanced nervously out the window at his car for a second before looking back at Brennan.

"Why a cliff, though?" Tempe asked. "Why didn't he just get into Harryl's apartment, like he did with me?"

"Speaking of that, I've had your locks changed. Your old one was a cinch to pick. But it turns out Debrue called Harryl to meet him over at the Grand Falls park, and tried to blackmail him with the information. Harryl figured it'd be easier to knock the guy off and not bother paying. Now, he's paying with life in prison."

"Guess that means he won't be calling me for a second date." Tempe grinned.

Booth snorted. "Not unless you're a very good lawyer. Or a very good publicist, I have a feeling his book sales may drop considerably after this. Especially considering the fact that they're being called off the shelves."

"My publisher called me while I was making lunch," Tempe informed Booth.

"What'd she say?" Booth was grinning.

"She told me I had better get my book written soon, sounded very frazzled, and hung up when I asked her what was wrong."

"Wonder what could be eating her."

"Beats me," Tempe shrugged.

Booth glanced outside at his SUV again, closed the dishwasher, and turned to Tempe. "Stay here a second."

"Why? What are you doing?" She couldn't help feeling tense. She'd had one too many surprises recently.

"You'll see, Bones!" Booth called behind his shoulder in a sing-song voice. Tempe sighed and sank into a kitchen chair, then stared at her half-drunk iced tea until she heard footsteps in the kitchen. When she looked up, she saw Booth standing in the entrance to the room with something in his arms.

Something that mewed when he held it forwards, meeting her eyes as he prayed she'd react like he thought she would.

She stood up so quickly that she almost knocked the chair out from under her and took an apprehensive step towards man and kitten, then held out her hand and stroked the soft fur on top of the tiny head.

"Booth," she breathed, head tilted to once side, eyes transfixed on the perfect little scrap of a creature in front of her. Finally, she raised her chin and met her partner's gaze. "For me?"

She sounded almost surprised, Booth noted. "No, Bones, for Harryl," he teased gently.

"Booth, I…" she paused, swallowed, looked at the gift, and then back at the giver. "Thank you."

Then, she was in his arms again, somehow, and Booth decided he could get used to it. Her face was buried into his shoulder, and he rested his chin on the top of her head. He could tell by the way she was shaking that she was on the verge of tears, and he wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The kitten let out a high-pitched yowl, and Tempe stepped back, wiping her eyes, and then laughed as she took the kitten from Booth. "I don't know what to say."

"You could always name it Seeley," he said, flashing Brennan a mischievous grin.

She rolled her eyes, laughing. "What kind of a name is Seeley?"

"What kind of a name is Temperance?" he countered, raising his eyebrows.

She shot him a look and continued stroking the kitten. "I'm not naming him until I can make sure the name will fit. When I was growing up, our neighbors had a cat named Tiny, because he had been the runt of the litter."

"Let me guess; Tiny got a little too fond of table scraps?"

Brennan laughed and nodded. "When did you have time to pick him up, Booth?" she questioned, filling up a bowl with water and setting the kitten down beside it. He was still small, but definitely old enough to drink on his own. She wasn't an expert on animals, but Tempe guessed that the kitten was about three or four weeks old.

"This morning, from the shelter. If you'd like, we can swing by your apartment on our way to the lab, and you can drop him off with your stuff."

She nodded. "You can just drop me off at home, then. There's no reason for you to drive all the way to the lab. I'll just get my car."

He gave her a sly smile, and his eyes glinted deviously. "Actually, Bones, it's a funny story. While you were busy putting Harryl out cold with your Mongolian vase-"

"-it was Kenyan," Tempe interjected.

"While you were busy putting Harryl out cold with your _Kenyan_ vase," Booth corrected, "an elderly couple taking a stroll found something unusual."

"Let me guess, that unusual something is currently sitting on a lab table waiting to be identified?" Brennan asked, slinging her bag over one shoulder and picking up the kitten with her free arm.

"You're the next Miss Cleo, Bones."

"I don't know what that means."

------

Temperance sat at her desk writing, a cat on her lap and words on her screen, just the way she liked it. She was almost finished with the chapter that had been giving her so much trouble. The scene she'd been avoiding was completely done.

She couldn't quite explain why she had been able to write after agonizing over it for so long. She didn't think about the fact that her parents' eyes didn't look down from the bookshelf at her as she wrote any more. The fact that she had stopped feeling as if her character didn't get along with her parents, it meant she wouldn't have gotten along with hers.

She typed in the last few lines, reread the paragraph again, saved the file, and then shut the computer down just as a knock sounded at the door.

A smile snaked its way onto her lips. Booth was picking her up to go speak with the elderly couple that had found the body in her lab; a few crucial bones were missing, so they wanted to make sure the couple hadn't seen anything else.

She opened the door to reveal her partner waiting impatiently. "Hey, Bones, ready to go?"

Nodding, Tempe slung her bag over her shoulder and picked her cat up from the floor, letting Booth stroke it once before she plopped a kiss on his head and set him down on the floor. "Be good, Ranger," she warned the cat as she closed the door, gave Booth a sly grin, and strode past him towards the stairs.

Booth didn't move for a second, just watched Brennan's retreating figure and stuck his hands in his pockets. A smile flickered onto his lips.

"Ranger, eh?"

-----

FIN

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**AN**: Thanks so much to everyone who has read and review along the way! Your support and comments made this a great experience, you guys are lovely.

This was a hard chapter to write, because there were so many dangling plot lines to be concluded! I hope you all enjoyed it.

Shameless plug! My next story, The Skeleton's Truth, is going to be up very shortly. Check it out if you liked this!

So… let me know what you thought of the last chapter, or about the story as a whole. Did it meet your expectations? Did you like reading it? Want to give Ranger some catnip? Drop me a line, let me know!


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